The Book

“There are few things in life that can bring you closer to your personal history,” Thomas Buckeye told the class. He picked up a book of poetry and held it high. Every member of the class stared at the book.

“This has been passed down in my family since it was published in 1773. I would love to say the author, Phillis Wheatley, was a relative or at least a part of my lineage, but the only relation to me was the fact we shared a heart.”

Thom paused briefly and continued, “Who enjoys reading poetry?”

Half the class raised a hand, a few tentatively. Thom smiled.

“Personally, I cannot read poetry. I dislike reading it as a matter of fact, but I have read this book and make it a point to read it once a year, cover to cover.” 

He looked at the cover and read the title, “Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral,” Taking a breath, “By Phillis Wheatley.”

Carefully placing the aged book on the podium. “The remainder of today’s class is on Miss Phillis Wheatley and her impact on notable figures in American history.”

A student raised a hand. Thom nodded to her.

“Excuse me, Mr. Buckeye, but how is an old published book of poetry related to this history class?”

Thom had been waiting for this opening. He knew one of three members of this class would comment on the oddness of a book of poetry in the course that was not mentioned in the syllabus. He took advantage of this opening to enlighten his students.

“Well, Veronica. Historically, she played a prominent role in the early history of the United States,” A few of the other students smiled, realizing this is what he was hoping for, “If we do not study the past, it will be repeated in the future.”

He walked around to the front of the podium. His teaching style was closer to discussion and debate than lecture and learning. Anyone can memorize history, and he wanted to teach history. “Phills Wheatley is thought to be the first African-American author of a book of poetry. More importantly, she is the first African American female author. She was captured in Gambia, Africa, at the age of eight and brought to what we know as Boston, where she was purchased by John Wheatley, also from Boston. The Wheatley family were known as good people with great wealth, and before you make a comment on the owning of humans, that was then, and it was the norm. Phillis was named after the ship that brought her to America, and, as per tradition, she acquired the last name of those who owned her. She found that she was supposed to assist Mrs. Wheatley with the daily household chores. However, from day one, the Wheatley family educated the young slave and taught her to read and write. She found she enjoyed reading and writing poetry and the family encouraged her in her endeavors. By age 12, she could read in multiple languages, and at 14, she created her first book of poetry. The name of it slips my mind.”

He paused a moment to see if there were any comments. Nothing. After a minute of silence, he continued.

“At the age of 20, she wrote this very book,” Reaching over the podium to hold it in his hand, “Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. The Wheatley family emancipated her after this book was published, and eventually, she married a man named John Peters. She could not publish another book and eventually became ill in 1784 with pneumonia. She died at the age of 31 on December 5th, 1784, during childbirth, and her newborn daughter joined her in the great beyond that very day.”

The room was silent. He made his point.

Veronica raised a hand, “OK, she was an amazing woman, but how is this relevant to the history of this country?”

“Veronica,” He said, scratching his head, “You are not seeing what I am describing. This woman was taken from everything she knew. She was sold into slavery. Her ‘owners’ taught her to read and write in English, Greek, and Latin. She overcame her past, and for the benefit of all, she wrote a book of poetry. That book was noteworthy in American History. After publishing her book, George Washington invited her to meet with him in 1776 at his headquarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Thomas Paine, one of this country’s founding fathers, republished the poem she sent to George Washington, entitled His Excellency, George Washington. She was a well-known literary poetess in both America and England.”

Sitting beside Veronica, Tad asked, “OK, she was smart. She had natural writing skills, but how is this relevant to this course?”

Thom shook his head. He thinks this story was lost on this class, “Let me tell you how I came to own this book.”

Every eye was on him, “My great-great-whatever, Mary, received this autographed copy of the book from the author and cherished it dearly. In her will, and in the wills of each subsequent owner, including myself, is a promise that the recipient will read this book in December each year, thinking about the author, her life, and her situation. During the two weeks off around Christmas, I read roughly 12 pages daily. If you remember the dead, their memories are alive in your thoughts and words. I honor that memory each year but can no longer read this copy. That is why it is sealed in a special plastic encasement, and the inside is nitrogen-filled to prevent the pages from further deteriorating. I purchased a copy of this very book online. It is not an expensive book, but I enjoy handling it without disintegrating the pages as I touch them.”

Virgil raised a hand.

“Mr. Buckeye. As you were speaking, I looked online for Miss Phillis and found that John Wheatley’s daughter was Mary. Sir, is your great-whatever relative Mary Wheatley, the daughter of John and the teacher of Phillis? If so, sir, I must tell you this is an interesting turn to the story.”

Thom hoped not to bring this fact into the light, “Correct, Virgil,” He looked Virgil directly in the eye, “My family owned slaves. However, how is that supposed to fall on me as something negative? I was not there. That was 12 generations ago. From the notes and journals I read, Phillis may have been property, but the Wheatley family treated her with respect, educated her, and eventually granted her freedom. My ancestors have all honored the tradition of rereading this book once a year and passed down the verbal stories to this day. We talk about family at Christmas dinner, and Phyllis is spoken of as family. I know a lot of information about that era, several stories not known by many, but I will say that I will meet Phillis one day after I’m gone, and when I do, I will call her my sister.”

Virgil was smiling. He knew this man well after the past few weeks in this class. He was an honorable man, and Virgil, who was nearly six and a half feet tall and quite large, was a person who football scouts watched with each game he played. He was also the darkest black man in this class and close to the entire school.

“Mr. B,” Virgil said, “I agree with several of your points. First, if you do not study the past, you will repeat it in the future. Second, how can someone be held accountable for something their ancestor did hundreds of years before they were born? Third, I found a lot about this woman, Phillis, on the web. But that is all just data, partial data and broken up, nothing like the story you told us.”

Thom spoke with a reverence no one in the class had heard before, “Along with the poetry book is Mary’s journal—her teaching and education of Phillis, as well as notes on early poetry readings that the family had on occasion in the living room. I know that the money Phillis earned went to the estate, not to her, which bothered Mary tremendously. When her parents died, losing touch with Phillis was, in her mind, the loss of a sister. A true sister, a friend, and, although ten years younger, someone Mary looked up to. Mary was born into the family, and her status in their society. Phyllis, however, came from a very dark place and made and remade herself into someone very special through sheer will and fortitude.”

The class members applauded quietly. 

“Sir,” Veronica said, “If you use your knowledge and information of Miss Phillis, her stories, and her history and write the book as historical fiction, people will read that book and learn about your family and your sister. If you write that story with the passion we just witnessed, it can’t fail.”

Thom looked up at the clock above the door. The bell was about to ring.

“If I do write this book, I want to credit each of you at the beginning of the book as someone who assisted me in writing it. My creative team or my cattle prod, not sure which at this point, but perhaps a little of both can be a good thing.”

The bell rang, and no one moved. When the bell rang, the students usually stood and ran out, needing to get to their next class or to leave this class. No one is certain. But the mere reality that no one in this class moved when the bell rang gave Thom the revelation that today was his first day as a history teacher and that he felt like his students actually learned something.

“Go, get out of here. We’ll talk about Phyllis and Mary another day.”

The students stood, gathered their possessions, and waved to him as they left. Thom held the book once again when the room emptied. He placed a hand on the cover and back of the book and spoke quietly.

“Mary, Phyllis. It seems that two and a half centuries later, you are still making an impact on the lives of others. Thank you.”